


Hazard

by immistermercury



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (falling in lust), Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, a lot of sex appeal, after a show, androgynous fred, battle for dominance basically, freddie's red leotard, set canon circa 1977, written for Jimercury Week 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: Written for freesiafield's prompt of "danger is my middle name".The eyeliner was powerful, and the high heels were powerful, crafting him into some mystical creature that seemed more phoenix or fairy than a simple boy or girl. He loved the power he got in their desperation to know: everyone wanted to crack his code, wanted to slide their hands down his bare chest to win their prize, and yet there was more fun in being chaste. The newspapers went wild. Column after column of begging invocations, theories and ideas of who he was, what he was, where he was from and where he was going.And it sold an awful lot of tickets.
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12
Collections: JimercuryWeek2021





	Hazard

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't worked off a prompt in a while so here you go! I definitely won't be doing the full Jimercury week (sadly) but I might pop up on a few more days (and definitely for the blind date prompt!)
> 
> Art by my gorgeous Delphi!

His eyes changed colour, dependent on the day.

Well, they didn’t, not in reality- but it was another part of the carefully crafted persona, the colours of the contacts that he blinked in before each show staining his eyes scarlet, magenta, acid green or bright orange. That day they were the prettiest cerulean blue, piercing and striking against the backdrop of a tumble of dark curls, dampened and recurled with sweat from the performance that had left his heart thrumming in his chest; they clashed beautifully with the leotard that hugged his thighs and chest, exposing a long line of skin from his collarbones down to his navel, coffee-with-cream and the all the richer when it sparkled with sweat. He had known he was pretty before he had climbed up onto the stage, before a thousand hands had outstretched for him, clamouring to grab his ankles and pull him into their arms; the eyes caught the gaze of many a stoic gentleman, rousing heartbeats and bulges in jeans that hadn’t expected to become quite so tight.

He was destined for this.

He’d always known that he was. From the days that he’d spent in a market, selling two-pound tops and three-pound jackets just so that he could buy his own to drape himself in fur; the money had bought the drugs, the demo, the fame, the things that seemed to keep his very heart ticking over. They’d bought the outfits, cut tighter, cut lower, more and more dangerous and risky with just enough padding to keep them questioning-

_ Is that a boy? _

The eyeliner was powerful, and the high heels were powerful, crafting him into some mystical creature that seemed more phoenix or fairy than a simple boy or girl. He loved the power he got in their desperation to know: everyone wanted to crack his code, wanted to slide their hands down his bare chest to win their prize, and yet there was more fun in being chaste. The newspapers went wild. Column after column of begging invocations, theories and ideas of who he was, what he was, where he was from and where he was going.

And it sold an awful lot of tickets.

Because they didn’t just come for music: they came for a show. They came for the flawless boy twirling in a kimono onstage; they came for the molten heat in the gaze of a man who would try his best to entice every person in their little suite to marry him; they came wanting to have him, to own him, to be the one with the story for all the newspapers about the arch of his back or the curl of his tongue. They wanted to be the one to tame Trouble itself, to secure it with a ring on its finger, to tie it down with chains and strip it bare so that they could learn every inch of secrets that dipped below the hem of a carefully arranged leotard.

He never changed right after a show. He would soak in the air, the attention, the adrenaline long after the crowds had gone and the hall had fallen silent: he would twirl the stage in stiletto heels and crouch to claim the roses on the floor, picking them silently of their petals before it would be swept that night. It was  _ he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not  _ for whichever handsome bastard had caught his eye that night, whoever had threatened to crack his façade with big hands and dark eyes-

_ He loves me. _

The house lights would make him glow, focusing their attention on the sequins that ridged the lines of his arms and legs; damp hair would glisten in the light as he allowed it to dry once more, allowed his breath to slow, allowed his body to soak once more in the high of the attention. Roger had once taken a photo of him, balanced precariously on his heels even while his legs trembled with the strain and the struggle of keeping him up for a moment longer, a freesia, a sprig of lavender, and a rose clasped up to his chest as though he was a princess glancing up at the moon and thinking of her lover.

He had the photo pinned to the inside of his makeup box. It was the perfect rendition of the  _ Freddie Mercury  _ that he had spent hours cutting up magazines to create, the picturesque, bastardised cherub with cheeks hollow instead of chubby, with legs long and lean that could fire a dart through a man’s heart in half the time it would take Cupid’s arrow. He would recreate that look, night after night, his eyes glassy and faraway, forever the dreamer, with dots of white eyeshadow and highlighter that made him look no more than a doll; when he was the angel, his eyes were baby blue; when he was the devil, they would be red.

Not even the house lights were on that night.

The stage was scattered with the ashes of pyrotechnics and cocaine that had been snorted after the show; he knelt in the middle of the stage and glanced out over the empty auditorium, crushed beer cans that somehow hadn’t been thrown at him with a call of  _ faggot!  _ and half-developed polaroid photos, half-developed and then dropped, which he would collect later in the night and smooth into the album of such pictures that he kept.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He sighed happily, standing up on legs that screamed with the exertion of sex, though the most he had done was kneel wantonly amongst his bandmates and nuzzled at their pockets; his own voice echoed around him, a feedback loop of pure pleasure. “Oh, I thank you so much, my darlings, for such a wonderful night!”

A solitary figure, bathed in the clouds of darkness that occupied the auditorium - or maybe, Freddie mused, it was simply the result of allowing so many aroused men to smoke their way through a rather frustrating set. He crawled forward, watching the figure as it dared to approach him, prey very carefully approaching the predator just to check if it was, indeed, really dead. “I-” The voice started, and Freddie could’ve moaned at the accent that choked his mind and his throat. “I really- really enjoyed the show. Thanks.” He added hastily.

Freddie swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the stage, legs spread wide and inviting and stilettos hanging only from his toes, acres of smooth skin for the eyes to feast upon.

Men only ever approached him after a show for one reason.

“Are you feeling lucky, darling?” He asked, voice a low purr, and wound a curl around his finger coquettishly.

“Lucky?” He asked, stepping into Freddie’s light but staying shy of his body, as though he were an apparition that would simply disappear if it was touched. “Why would I be lucky?”

“Don’t be innocent.” He smirked, leaning back on the palms of his hands. “Tell me what you liked.”

The man arched an eyebrow, and Freddie could’ve grabbed his collar and kissed him there. He knew exactly what the press of their lips would taste like, could practically feel the cool press of the breath mint that he was sure the stranger would’ve hastily swallowed, just in case he was, in fact, a very lucky man indeed.

“I loved the music.” He said earnestly, and Freddie resisted the urge to pinch his cheek. “I really like your- you know, the whole thing you’ve got going on.”

“The thing?” He asked, running a finger over his own lip, dragging it down teasingly. “What do you think I am, some kind of fucking circus act?”

He mouthed on his words for a moment, unable to tell if he was serious, and then swallowed heavily. “No?”

“Didn’t think so.” He smirked, crooking his finger to beckon him closer, until the stranger’s broad shoulders were within reaching distance; he smoothed his hands over the thin fabric of his t-shirt and smirked. 

“Jim.” The stranger broke the silence again, but Freddie rested a finger over his lips and shushed him softly. 

“Don’t spoil it, baby.” He murmured, smiling wider when hands fell on his thighs and squeezed lightly. “So you do think you’re lucky, hm? All this to yourself for the night? Oh, what a lucky gentleman you are…”

“I’ve got a girlfriend.” He whispered guiltily; Freddie cupped his cheeks and kissed the words off of his lips, deep and sensual, aggressive. 

“Don’t tell me that.” He smirked. “Not if you want it to work out for you, honey. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of you-” He trailed a finger down his chest, teasing it at the waistband of his jeans. 

“Something to happen?” He asked.

“Darling, danger’s my middle name.” He winked, fisting his hand in the stranger’s t-shirt and kissing him again. “Break up with her.” He whispered against his lips.

“For you?” He asked incredulously.

“Not feeling so lucky now, are we, darling?” He mocked, suddenly snapping his legs closed. “Oh, I could never love a man who’s afraid to gamble.”

The stranger regarded him for a moment longer, watching the teasing arch of Freddie’s eyebrow; he walked closer and suddenly pushed him onto his back, hand staying against his chest. “I didn’t say I didn’t gamble.” He murmured, trapping him in another embrace.

Freddie’s heart beat with pride and vanity as he kissed back, wrapping his legs around his waist, pressing their bodies together until every curve, every bulge, every contour was known by the other man. “What are the odds on this one, honey?” He asked breathlessly.

“About two-thousand to one.” He whispered. “But there’s been worse odds that have won, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments if you've enjoyed, especially if I don't usually see your name around here!
> 
> Xx


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